


Nor Dare To Shirk

by amyfortuna



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Crack, Gen, Industrial Horror, Minor Character Death, Psychological Torture, Trick or Treat 2015
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-28 18:40:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5101550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/pseuds/amyfortuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometime in the late Second Age, Sauron has captured Maglor and is putting him to work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nor Dare To Shirk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lunarium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunarium/gifts).



> This probably isn't what you envisioned when you prompted _'Maglor creating some really beautiful music while being tortured'_ \- sorry! :P

Maglor was silent. The resonating groans of a thousand Orcs around him echoed in the large dim hall, a vast workroom at the heart of a huge factory that Sauron had brought him to. They stood high above the masses of labouring Orcs. For a long time Sauron let Maglor watch, catch the rhythm of the room. His eyes darted from one labourer on an assembly line, the movement of her arms flashing like swift lightning among the clouds, seemingly tirelessly, to another, an older Orc who was slower at his work, barely finishing one task before the next was before him, and sometimes even faulting his work. 

Once Maglor had observed everything, Sauron drew the tip of a sharp pointed fingernail down his cheek, drawing a line of blood. "Sing," he said, deadly calm. "Make them work harder, and when they have been used up completely, kill them with swordsong. I know you have that talent, unlike your fair cousin, who could only seem to sing of twittering birds and strewn pearls, before I defeated him and had him killed."

Maglor turned to him, and there was a quiet rage in his eyes. "I know that tale," he said, "and how it ended. It did not end well - for you, or for your dark master." 

Sauron's whole hand clenched on his shoulder, and blood seeped through Maglor's clothing in five places where fingernails had pierced him. "And if we continue the tale, you don't come out of it so well yourself," he said, still perfectly calm, with the assurance of one who knows his victim has no escape. "So sing, sing, my angel of music," he continued, sickly sweet, "and make my armies great indeed." 

Maglor took a breath, and gave a stricken look first at Sauron, then at the room full of Orcs, and began to sing. His voice was soft at first, but rose in volume like a wave, crashing over the room, overpowering all the resounding groans of the labourers. They did not even look up, but their fingers began to move faster. The female Orc tossed back her dark hair and moved her pale arms to and from the long assembly line almost as swift as thought. The old male Orc began to move more quickly as well, the strain telling on his body. He was like a puppet on a set of strings, dancing to Maglor's voiced command and presence. 

It wasn't long before it was too much for the old Orc. Maglor, eyes fixed firmly on him, raised his voice in a sudden word of command, aiming for the heart. The Orc fell like the strings had been cut, limp, dead. 

"Good," Sauron breathed beside him. "Go on." 

There was a brief pause while the old Orc's body was removed, and then a young Orc, not much more than a child, came up to take his place. Her eyes were bright and eager. As she took her place on the assembly line she glanced up at where Sauron and Maglor were standing, and a wave of worshipful fear seemed to tumble over her face. 

Maglor restarted his song, and her hands began to move.


End file.
